by Mira Stables
Mr Cameron, however, having broached his fantastic scheme and allowed his prisoner time to consider its possibilities, proceeded to enlarge on it in a very businesslike way with no least inkling of that prisoner’s horrified reaction.
“I am credibly informed,” he went on, with the faintly distasteful air of one compelled to discuss a subject of doubtful propriety, “that you have any number of suitors. Several of whom are extremely eligible. So there can be no problem there. You have only to indicate which of them you prefer, and I will make all the necessary arrangements to inform the happy man of your decision.”
But Russet had recovered. “For one who is so remarkably well informed and such a percipient judge of the possible reactions of others,” she told him tartly, “you seem to have very little knowledge of the behaviour of the normal members of your sex.” The slight stress that she gave to ‘normal’ was dangerous, she knew, but irresistible. “What do you think would be the feelings of the chosen gentleman gentleman—and there was no need to sneer at the number of my suitors—when informed by you that I had decided to marry him? Ignorant and unprincipled as I am, I can think of only one interpretation that he would put upon such a suggestion. And I do not think that it would be marriage that he would have in mind.”
It was Mr Cameron’s turn to look slightly non-plussed. But he was of a dogged breed that having once decided upon a course of action would not lightly be turned aside. “You have only to think of your sister’s future,” he said smoothly, “and I feel sure that feminine ingenuity will enable you to concoct a tale that will convince the fortunate gentleman of your unimpeachable virtue.”
She eyed him with loathing. But for Joanna’s sake she would make one more effort at conciliation, whatever the cost to her pride. “Why should it not suffice,” she said meekly, “that I give you my word that I have no designs on Lucian Staneborough? At its very lowest level, surely your intimate knowledge of my—my suitors—must have indicated that I could do better for myself. And I have repeatedly assured you that the whole thing is a hum—that Lucian does not care for me in that way. Can you not accept my word for this?”
His face was grim. “Unfortunately, ma’am, no. Perhaps I might have done so had I not learned in Southampton last night that Staneborough had met with an accident upon his arrival in that town. No—it was not of my contriving,” he threw in impatiently as he saw alarm and suspicion in her face, “nor was he seriously hurt. A broken ankle, I believe, and caused by sheer negligence, wandering about the quayside and not looking where he was going—so intent, no doubt, on seeking a certain Miss Ingram. But with matters in such a pass I am not going to accept empty promises. Moreover you could not, in any case, promise for Staneborough, could you? No. I’ll see you safely tied up in matrimony, where you can do no more harm, or you may stay here. The choice is with you.”
“There is no choice,” she said curtly. “Not even for my sister’s sake could I consent to so base a betrayal.”
He seemed surprised. “You would deem it so?”
“To marry a man who had offered for me in honesty, just to suit my own convenience? Would not you call it betrayal? Or, indeed, to marry at all when my affections were not engaged. What sort of a bargain would that be? No, sir. I fear that you will be put to the trouble and expense of housing me for some considerable time.”
She gave him a tiny curtsey to signify that the interview was now ended. But he was not yet quite done with her.
“Very well, ma’am. On the day that my ward’s betrothal is officially announced, you will be free to go. I regret that such an announcement is likely to be further delayed by Staneborough’s mishap. Perhaps I am over generous in my estimate of him, but once that announcement has been sent to the papers I do not think that he could be beguiled into breaking his troth. If, on the other hand, the tedium of imprisonment should cause you to change your mind on the subject of marriage, you have merely to acquaint me with your wishes. Ameera will bring me the message. She is to wait on you, and will supply you with all reasonable comforts. Anything short of freedom. You have only to ask.”
This was another blow. “Ameera?” questioned Russet. “Not Phoebe?”
The grim face softened. “No. Not Phoebe. Phoebe is my housekeeper. It was quite sufficiently uncomfortable having to dispense with her services for a whole week. I cannot spare her to you for longer. Besides, she disapproves of my present course of conduct and has not scrupled to tell me so. You might find it possible to work on her sympathies to a point where she would connive at your escape. You will not be able to do that with Ameera since her command of English is limited. She is, however, well trained in the duties required of a lady’s maid, so her linguistic shortcomings are unimportant. Incidentally, although she looks slight and frail, do not try to wrest the key of your room from her. You might well succeed in doing so. But Ameera herself is locked in with you. This room, with the adjoining dressing room, is approached by a separate corridor. The door to that corridor is locked and bolted on the outside by my butler, Ahmed Khan, Ameera’s father, so all that you would gain by such an attempt is the freedom of that corridor and the hostility of my Indian servants. I will leave you to think things over and bid you good morning.”
But Russet was in no mood for careful reflection. Her spirits had sunk at the knowledge that she was to be deprived of Phoebe’s society. It seemed that she had been right in her instinctive trust. Phoebe did symphathise with her, even though loyalty to her master had led to her being involved in the abduction. With Phoebe to turn to, Russet could have felt safe and comfortable, even if she was a prisoner. Deprived of that support she felt oddly helpless and very lonely. She would have liked to bury her face in the cushions of the window seat where she had established herself and give way to the misery that was making the tears prick behind her eyelids and her throat ache with suppressed sobs. But that was no way for an Ingram to behave, and who knew when the soft-footed Ameera might choose to appear? It would never do to be discovered giving way to despair, since doubtless a report would promptly go back to her jailer.
Instead she began, like every other captive creature, to probe the boundaries of her prison. It did not take very long, and so far as she could see there was no possibility of escape. The two rooms together made the shape of an L and formed one corner of the building. The dressing room had only a small casement window which looked out over sloping lawns to a lake and the graceful trees of the park. What looked like another door out of it gave access only to a powder closet. The bedroom, which overlooked what Russet guessed to be the main drive, had three large sash windows, one of which actually stood open. But since investigation revealed that the terrace was some thirty feet below, Russet soon abandoned any wild hope of knotting the bed sheets together and using this way of escape. To arrive on that remarkably unreceptive-looking terrace in a huddled heap, with broken limbs or possibly even a broken neck, could scarcely serve any useful purpose and would probably create just the kind of scandal that she was so anxious to avoid.
One small taste of liberty was granted her. A beautiful wrought iron balcony ran the length of the three windows, just such a balcony as she had once seen adorning a Venetian palace. It was furnished with tubs of plants, some of which had been trained to form a screen from the glare of the sun, and with chairs and a table of wicker-work. An Indian notion, perhaps, for she had never seen anything quite like them before. At least they seemed to show that the balcony was meant for use and that she need not fear to entrust herself to its support. She climbed carefully over the low window sill and advanced rather timidly to the balustrade. One glance at the terrace below was more than sufficient. She had never had much of a head for heights. Hastily she averted her gaze from that intimidating drop and its horrid fascination. It required quite a strong effort of will to ignore it and force herself to concentrate on the other aspects of her surroundings.
Along the frontage of the house were two more balconies that matched hers. She guessed that these
probably served the principal bedrooms, while the floor below would be given over to reception rooms. Best not to think too much about the floors below, she decided. They reminded her of that drop. She wondered who had formerly used her room. Possibly Mr Cameron’s mother, since the heavy furnishings seemed to indicate the preferences of an older woman. Though if the gentleman had held his mother in such esteem as Phoebe would have had her believe, he would surely not have given over her room to house a ‘useless society doll’. That insult still rankled, perhaps because it held a certain element of truth. She did lead a useless existence; had herself wearied of it. But what else was a girl to do? At least she furnished useful employment for quite a number of other people who would otherwise have been without the means of subsistence.
She sighed wearily. What she had to do at this moment was to devise a way out of this impasse. And at least, she thought resentfully, if she was idle and useless, she was not wantonly wicked like Letty Waydene, whom his lordliness seemed to think so perfect and so ill-used. She did not tell malicious lies or harm innocent people. She wondered inconsequently how Joanna was getting on, and if Gilbert had declared himself as yet. They would have been at Denholme for two days now. The thought led her naturally to speculation about Lucian Staneborough. Because she liked the lad, she sincerely hoped that his injuries were minor ones, as Mr Cameron had seemed to imply. For her own sake, also, she wished him a speedy recovery. If he were to announce his betrothal to Letty without further delay, it would be much the simplest way out of her difficulties. It was a very selfish thought, she knew, for what hope of happiness could there be for a decent straightforward youngster, wedded to sly, scheming Miss Letty?
But for the moment she had troubles enough of her own. She was by nature an active energetic creature, and the beauty of the summer day seemed to mock her helplessness. A gentle breeze stirred the tree-tops. She thought how delightful it would be to walk or drive out on such a morning. Better still to ride. From the terrace below a peacock screeched, and strutted proudly, displaying his glorious train. No other living creature stirred.
She wearied soon enough of the balcony with its taunting illusion of freedom and turned to seek distraction indoors. She examined the shelves of books. Many of them were works of a religious or philosophical nature, but there were several volumes of poetry and a number of novels. As a rule Russet enjoyed reading but today she found it impossible to concentrate on the printed page. There was a handsome escritoire furnished with everything that a lady could desire if she wished to deal with her correspondence. And small use that was, she thought bitterly, unless she decided to keep a diary to record the days of her imprisonment. She was in no mood for needlework—was not, in any case, overfond of her needle—and had no aptitude for sketching in water colours. If the specimens on the walls were evidence, her predecessor had possessed marked talent. There were some charming studies of rural scenes showing sturdy peasants, vigorous with life, engaged in seasonal tasks. Not English, Russet decided, briefly interested. There was a slightly romanticised painting—in oils, this time, and on a sizeable canvas—of a hoary looking mediaeval castle complete with moat, drawbridge and a faint air of melancholy, as though it brooded over glories long faded. She would have liked to know more about the castle—its story might prove more interesting than any of the novels—and about the artist. But there was no one to ask. Whether from choice or because she had been so instructed, Ameera’s visits were brief; no more than was necessary to attend to Russet’s toilet and to serve her meals. Once another maid came with her to set the room to rights and Russet had to retire to the balcony while this was done, but the second girl never spoke at all though her big dark eyes were alight with eager curiosity. Perhaps she had no English. Ameera’s, while perfectly adequate to the exigencies of a lady’s toilet and to simple exchanges about meals, did not allow of anything more intimate.
A pack of playing cards, discovered in one of the drawers of the escritoire, helped a little. She occupied herself in dealing out hands for the players in various games and in trying to assess how the game would have gone. Between that and playing herself at chess the time passed somehow. At least her fingers were busy even if her thoughts were frequently astray.
There were two clocks to mark the passage of the hours. One, a charming Louis Quinze piece, stood on the mantel shelf. The other, a chiming clock of some kind, was presumably outside in the corridor. By dusk she would gladly have set about that one with a hammer. The mantel clock she could endure—one could always turn one’s back on it. The other wretched brute—by now she had imbued it with a separate animate personality—insisted on reminding her that only another quarter of an hour had passed; that it was still two hours to dinner; that at least three more must be endured before one could decently retire to bed. Deeply she regretted that an Ingram could scarcely ask that the thing should be stopped. Tomorrow, perhaps, she thought hopefully. One could always say that it disturbed one’s slumbers. But no. The excuse was too flimsy. HE would detect the subterfuge, and triumph over this sign of weakness.
She took what comfort she could from the delicious meals that were served to her. Not so much from the food itself—between anxiety and lack of exercise her appetite was already failing—but because she ascribed the daintily prepared trays, the provision of her favourite dishes, to Phoebe’s kindly thought for her, and hugged that friendly warmth to her loneliness.
Chapter Six
If the first day of her captivity had seemed endless, those that followed merged into a monotonous sameness where time was of small importance. She found herself succumbing to a dull apathy, broken occasionally by fits of wild frustration. In these angry moods she even knew the urge to smash and destroy. She never saw Mr Cameron. Save for Ameera and the young housemaid no one came near her, and there were times when, since she could not get at her jailer to pour out her fury, she was sorely tempted to do all the damage she could, to spoil and deface this opulent prison that mocked her with its smug comfort. That she never did so was because she knew that it would be a moral victory for her tormentor.
From lack of exercise and occupation she slept badly, and the tempting meals that Phoebe caused to be sent up to her would often go back to the kitchen untouched. She grew pale and heavy-eyed, all of which the tender-hearted Ameera faithfully reported to a deeply concerned Phoebe.
After that first endless day she had taught herself to pursue a course of varied occupation, spending one hour on reading a volume of sermons, another sewing, a third in her endless foolish card games, meticulously recording the scores of Joanna or Cousin Olivia or some other chosen opponent. After lunch she would sit on the balcony with a novel. But not even the tragic fate of the lovely Clarissa Harlowe could wholly distract her mind. She would read the same paragraph over and over again without taking in its meaning and close the book with a sigh of relief when the clock struck the hour. What most alarmed Ameera was the trick she had developed of talking to herself. There were tears in the girl’s eyes when for the third time she had to tell Phoebe of this strange behaviour.
“It is bad,” she said sorrowfully. “Missy is kind and gentle. Why she be shut in? She grow ill.”
“And talking to herself,” muttered Phoebe anxiously. “The lonesomeness, poor little wench. And the master forbidding me to go next nor nigh her. Trying to tame her spirit and can’t see that she’s the kind that’ll break before it yields. It’d not surprise me if he’s not got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Miss Russet didn’t seem like no fast and loose piece to me, while that there Miss Letty was too smooth by half, with her pretty coaxing ways and her demure looks, and her as smug as a cat at the cream pot.”
“Cat!” she said, so sharply and so suddenly that poor Ameera, who had been painstakingly trying to follow these idiomatic remarks, nearly jumped out of her skin. “Cats,” she repeated, more calmly. “That’d be the thing. A kitten. T’would be company for her and give her something to talk to. And the master never said we wasn’t to g
ive her a kitten to play with,” she ended triumphantly.
Alas! This promising scheme seemed doomed to failure for lack of suitable livestock. The kitchen cat, which, said Phoebe, produced litters with quite unnecessary regularity, was not due to oblige for another week. By the time her expected progeny were of an age to be introduced into parlours, Phoebe devoutly trusted that their unwilling guest would be safely restored to her own home. And even Phoebe was forced to admit that it would not do to be asking around the farms for a kitten suitable for a lady’s pet. Such an unusual request would certainly provoke undesirable curiosity. They wanted no rumours of strange ladies staying at Furze House.
It was left to the delighted Ameera to suggest an alternative. “Chimi!” she said. “The missy like Chimi.”
Phoebe was dubious. “A monkey,” she pondered. “Well, I don’t know. Smart London ladies do have pet monkeys, I believe. But it’s not a Christian kind of animal like a cat or a dog.”
Ameera giggled. “Chimi no Christian,” she said. “He very good Hindu. But he make the missy laugh.”
At least the retort made Phoebe laugh, and Ameera was given permission to introduce her pet into Russet’s room as soon as the master had gone out.
The diversion succeeded to admiration. Russet was interested and amused. Chimi’s mischievous antics actually did make her laugh. He was an amiable little creature and enjoyed being petted, wrapping his skinny arms around her and chittering happily in the fashion that had given him his name. Russet fed him with cherries and nuts and smiled to see him spit nutshells and cherry stones on to the elegant day-bed and go swarming nonchalantly up the detested damask curtains. He was quite willing to stay with her, too, as long as the supply of food held out, and Ameera went off to her other duties well pleased with the success of her kindly thought, while Chimi, worn out by so much socialising, curled up on the day-bed and went to sleep.